Week of Light: Day 6

I am beginning this post rather late because I just finished watching a captivating 60 minute video on prayer. The speaker (Anthony Bloom) had many interesting reflections but one thing in particular caught my attention at the beginning of his talk: his use of the phrase, "to see in a new light".

This familiar idiom, of course, stood out to me because I have been reflecting on light all week.

What does that mean, "to see in a new light"?

While I don't know the origins of the saying, my imagination stirs up an image. I am straining to see an something in a dark or dusky location and, being unsuccessful, turn on a light (or take the item somewhere else) to see it in a "new light".

In other words, if I can't see clearly where I am, I'll try a new light and perhaps I shall see more clearly.

(Of course, as an idiom, it means more than this. The phrase is typically used to suggest rethinking, re-evaluating or gaining a new perspective.)

Ironically, quite a number of things he said about prayer caused me to see it "in a new light". For example, he told a rather amusing story about how he had a bad quarrel with his good friend as an adolescent and he decided that he was never going to forgive him.

However, this created a problem for him every time he tried to say the Lord's prayer and he got to the part about "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us". He brought his dilemma to his priest and was told that he should not say anything in prayer that isn't true.

He tried out some alternatives, such asking God to heap burning coals on his own head since he wanted to heap them on the head of his friend. But that didn't work for him because he wanted to be forgiven. For the same reason, it didn't work when he tried to skip over that part of the prayer.

Finally, he was able to say the Lord's prayer, with his priest's approval, as "forgive me as much as I wish I could forgive my friend". After a year of saying it this way, he and his friend finally reconciled.

Although it doesn't seem like this should be so surprising, the speaker's emphasis on the importance of truth in prayer caused me to see it in a different light. Certainly it is not as though, prior to hearing this message, I was in the habit of lying to God. But, often enough, prayer can come from somewhere other than the deepest truth of one's heart.

Prayers can be recited because we were taught them. We may say them because we have been told that it is "good" to do so. They may be expected of us in certain situations or we participate because we don't want to be left out. But no prayer is good for me if I cannot say it and have it be true.

This small example causes me to consider how many things I routinely look at in "an old light".

I may have an established way of looking at myself that has been with me for so long that I consider it to be "true" and not open to a different perspective.

I may have a certain way of looking at the world, religion, politics, other people (and countless other things) because that is how I have always seen them. It doesn't occur to me that I might not be seeing them clearly and should try a new light.

And, of course, I may have a particular way of looking at - or thinking about - God.

I may conceive of God as an angry old man sitting on a throne, deciding moment by moment who gets to live and who gets to die. Or I might view him an amorphous spirit who brought everything into being but has now lost interest. Or I might even think of him as a myth, a fairy tale invented to make people feel better about their pointless existence.

Regardless of what my "old light" may be regarding God, it is very likely that I have one. Very few of us have grown up without any images or ideas about God, whether positive or negative. As with our other well-established views, it may not occur to us that there may different "lights" than the one in which we currently view things.

As the saying goes, it is what it is.

Or is it?

If you are at all like me, you have had experiences like the one I just described about truth and prayer. I wasn't conscious that I didn't demand that my prayers be true. I just hadn't really thought of it that way before. So my perspective on the "what it is" was modified a bit when I viewed it in a different light.

But there is even more here.

It has been written:

"God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all." 

(1 John 1:5). 

The meaning here is not that God is like the sun - only bigger. Rather, in God, there is nothing hidden. Truth is revealed in His presence. And it is a truth that loves and desires to help us - to see what we cannot otherwise see, to understand what we cannot otherwise understand.

In Him, there is no more being confused or lost or afraid.

My spiritual brother, Rodger, was again kind enough to share an image and reflection for this week of Light. He too apparently loves the evening light, having received the image of this grand old tree as it was illumined by the setting sun.

(photo by Rodger, used with permission; minor editing by me.)

He sent me an e-mail today to say that the image helped him remember "how God shows his brilliance right before or after a dark night".

Indeed. There is no denying that life holds its "dark nights" - some of them very dark. So dark that we cannot see. And we may not even know that there is any alternative to the darkness.

Come along with me, you who are in dark nights.

Step out of the "old light" and into the brilliance of His new light. Do not be afraid.

Allow the light of His truth to love you and lead you, right now, tonight. And forever...for, even if you slip back into darkness, His truth is always waiting for you to come back.

Week of Light: Day 5

Yesterday, in my ramblings, I extolled the glories of morning light. While evening light is also a great blessing, October in Ohio doesn't not offer us very much evening. The hours of daylight seem to shrink at an alarming rate each week. 

But how I love that evening light! 

There is something about the light cast by the setting sun that gives even the simplest blossom a resplendence befitting a rare treasure. It is as though the sun, as its parting gift to the earth before it slips away, bathes all things in its own radiant joy.

And so it was that, just over two weeks ago, my camera and I walked to the park down the street to be so bathed in evening light. I brought with me a book of the Scripture readings, marked for the feast day: Guardian Angels. (Even the printed word seemed more alive in the light.)

Allowing the Light to wash over me, I read: 

"See, I am sending an angel before you,

to guard you on the way

and bring you to the place I have prepared."

(Exodus 23: 20)

This is extraordinarily consoling news to those of us travelling through the darkness. The One Who is Himself Light has dispatched a guardian to guide us and illumine the treacherous path each of us travels on our journey Home to Him. We are not alone or lost. We are protected and led by messengers of Light. 

It is sad that so few of us believe this anymore. 

We live in a world that tells us it is foolish to believe in things we cannot see or prove. And yet so much of what gives our life depth or meaning cannot be seen or proven.

Can anyone see love? Can anyone prove beauty? While science may be able to describe light in photons and wavelengths, can it tell me why evening light brings me joy? 

Probably somewhere there is scientific study that tries to explain it - but I do not care. 

I do not disregard science but neither do I not turn to it for any of the answers that really matter. I no longer march with that army. Rather, I am marching in the Light of God.*

As has been happening to me more and more of late, some words joined with one of the images that I received on that evening walk on the feast of the Angels. Please allow me to share it with you:

Let us allow ourselves to bathed in His light. May it cleanse us of whatever darknesses remain, in or around us, that keep us from seeing His great love. 

Let us march on in His light...


* I have embedded for you a YouTube rendition of the Zulu hymn, "Siyahamba". Whether you've heard it a million times before - or never - I suggest you click on the little arrow and listen - or even sing or dance along.

Week of Light: Day 4

I woke to a pleasant surprise this morning. All of the weather forecasts I had seen the night before had little pictures of rain pouring down from storm clouds. I hadn't expected much.

When I opened my eyes and saw that my surroundings were still gray and dull, I resigned myself to clouds. Yuck. However, when I walked into my dining room for a better view, I could see that bright sunlight was inching its way past the tree and roof tops, so as to brighten my little garden.

I looked up to the sky. Not a cloud to be seen.

And it just so happened that, although there is always work to do, I did not have any patients to see until late afternoon. This has not happened recently and I had even been feeling a bit disappointed that my schedule was so light.

However, when I saw this "uncloudy" morning unfolding before me, all thoughts of disappointment evaporated. Before the weather changed its mind, my camera and I were going to take a walk.

Although the fall foliage has not yet peaked here in northeast Ohio, I knew that one street on my walking route typically has breath-taking beauty before all of the others. If I waited too long, as I had some years, I would miss some of the richest hues of the season.

After a bit of breakfast, I bundled up - it was a brisk morning - and we locked up the house to begin our sojourn. However, as my camera and I ventured out, I reminded myself that we were not going to take pictures or capture beauty but receive whatever images we were given.

I wanted this to be a contemplative walk, an opening of my heart to God - not a venture to collect photos so as to impress (as though I had created the beauty).

There is something about the morning light that is absolutely luscious. It has a vibrancy that is somehow sharp and soft at the same time. It defines every detail, in both light and shadow, but has a joyous aliveness that prevents any impression of being cold or hard.

As we made our way down the sidewalk, I almost immediately encountered a simple little leaf that had fallen onto my path at some earlier time. I saw its beauty in the illumination of the sun's fresh rays. I accepted its image with gratitude.

As I continued on through the neighborhood, I was blessed with many images, some quite colorful. Late-blooming roses held their own against the chill. The anticipated foliage was indeed stunning against bright blue sky.

But it was for the unexpected gifts that I felt a deep surge of gratitude: the images of the very ordinary fallen leaves as they encountered the Light.

Each fallen leaf, no matter how withered and worn, seemed to have a singular beauty of its own - a beauty that could only be revealed when exposed by the fresh morning light. I wanted to accept - no, embrace - each and every one, to experience its ordinary but unique story made manifest before me.

Even now...

I can relate to these leaves...

Each one is fallen...

Most are broken.

Each finds its beauty

Not in itself...

but in and through the Light...

given to it from Above.

Let us welcome the Light, humbly. Let us surrender ourselves to Its holiness and be enlightened by It.

All glory be to Him Who is our Light. Amen.

Week of Light: Day 3

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you."   

                                           

So says Rumi, the Persian poet and Sufi mystic. I have been pondering these words of his on and off throughout the day today, sensing their truth but wondering what they really mean.

My post yesterday made it all sound so easy. The Light of the holy One is merciful and removes our sin and darkness - all we have to do is accept the gift and allow it to transform us. 

There wasn't any mention of wounds...

Perhaps this isn't going to be so easy. 

This afternoon, I was catching up on some work on the computer when, for no discernible reason, I lost my Internet connection. I tried resetting the wireless system and it still wouldn't connect. 

While I was considering this dilemma, I thought, "Maybe I'll paint for a bit." Having a perfectly valid excuse to avoid my work, I allowed myself to be pulled once again by the allure of alcohol inks. (Far better than getting frustrated with technology, after all.)

I had this quote from Rumi in mind when I began dropping the ink but, as usual, the ink led me to an image I hadn't planned. But in this case, it led to something I really hadn't expected: an image of the wounded One - with the Light entering through His woundedness.

"What is this all about?" I wondered to myself, as I quickly got ready for an appointment. It seemed like something important but I had to leave any further reflection for later.

After the appointment, I was blessed with the opportunity to share Eucharist with a small group at my church. I came home and studied at the painting some more. Sensing that I was going to want to share it with you, I moved the image from paper to computer screen, with a little help from my camera. 

And now, to make sense of these words and images...

Rumi, though not a Christian, seemed to intuit something very important about the nature of wounds. Whether physical or emotional, wounds are painful points of vulnerability. But they are also openings. The pain of our wounds opens us to seek healing from the Light, even when we are afraid or prefer to hide in darkness.

And we are a people of many wounds. It is not God who wounds us - but rather our movement away from Him. We are wounded, not only by our own sins and faults, but by the destruction left in the wake of all of human sin. I am damaged by someone who was damaged by someone before me and so on, until it seems that all we see around us is brokenness.

Any of us who have had even a little exposure to Christianity have most likely heard it said that Jesus suffered and died for our sins. And to many of us, this is rather puzzling. How does His suffering and death do anything for my sins?

If we have been raised with angry-God theology, the rationale was probably something like this: because people sinned, God was angry and we owe Him a debt; some sort of sacrifice has to be offered to appease His wrath and Jesus took our place. Jesus suffered and died instead of us and "paid" the debt for us. 

If the debt has been paid, why are we still suffering so? Why is God still so angry?

The angry-God theology is not mine. I believe in a loving Creator who sees what a mess we are in. In the person of Jesus, He comes and unites Himself to us in every way except one. He does not sin. 

But He allows Himself to be broken and wounded by our sin. He takes on our pain and suffering and feels it in a very real and human way.

Now, if the story stopped here, we might think that He was a very kindly God for doing this. Nice to have Him walking along with us in the dark while we suffered our plight...but we would still be left wondering what the point was. 

But the story does not end here. 

The resurrection of Jesus changes the picture entirely. Uniting Himself with us, making our wounds His wounds, He carries us through death to a new life. In this new life, there is no death because the power of sin has been destroyed. And the Resurrection is evidence that sin has lost its ultimate power - because its ultimate power was death. 

He does much more than walk with us in the darkness. He is the Light. 

He is the Light who enters our wounds and heals them. He is the Light we follow to find our way Home...

(If you would like to enlarge this image, click on it. As always, comments and contributions are most welcome and may be e-mailed to me at findhope@roadrunner.com.)

Week of Light: Day 2

I love watching the antics of the squirrels that frequent my back yard and that of my next door neighbor. Sometimes they seem very serious as they go about their business of searching for food, eating and occasionally storing it. At other times, they are utterly silly, suddenly chasing each other, rolling on the ground and scrambling full tilt up a nearby tree. Their faces can be so expressive.

After writing yesterday about how my heart longs for the Light, it occurred to me that this is true only some of the time. 

Allow me to explain.

When I think of light, I quite naturally think of "created" light, i.e. the light that I see from the sun (created by God) or from light bulbs (created by people). Generally, I find that I enjoy the light. I love sunny days and mourn the passing of the longer days of summer sunlight.

However, there are times when I might prefer to avoid the light. If I have a migraine or if I'm trying to sleep, I might prefer a dark room to an open sunny one. And, while most of the time I'm grateful that I can turn on a light to help me see, there may also be times when I prefer not to see or be seen. Darkness covers. Light exposes.

In the image above, received last month while wandering the yard with my camera, a squirrel-friend appears to be expressing similar ambivalence about having been spotted in the light of evening sun. He looks, in fact, rather alarmed.

As with the created light, the uncreated Light of the Holy One may be met with mixed reactions. 

Many people who have described near-death experiences relate an irresistibly loving Light to which they feel drawn. Coming back to this life, by contrast, is related as almost a let-down. Deep prayer and meditation can leave some people filled with a sense of sacred Light that is wondrous beyond description. 

On the other hand, some people (like me) feel rather alarmed when reflecting on the following Scripture passage:

For there is nothing hidden that will not become visible, 

and nothing secret that will not be known and come to light.

(Luke, 8:17) 

Although the footnotes explain that this is referring to the mysteries of the Kingdom of God being made known to all, I still cannot help but squirm. Like the squirrel, I don't like the light giving me away when I thought I was safely hidden with my secrets in the darkness. 

In other words, I am a sinner. I carry within me memories of experiences that bring a sense of shame. I would like to meet that wondrous, holy Light - but if it means that all must be uncovered and everything must be exposed by the Light...well then, maybe I'll pass.

Or so it might be if I had not learned anything from the other 6 holy pauses: hope, peace, grace, mercy, love and joy. 

Left to our own imaginations, we may picture ourselves with the police interrogation room lights beating down on us as God's "light" accuses and condemns. But rather than just a prison door clanging shut, we may imagine something far worse, especially if we have been raised with images of angry God and hell fires.

But we have learned otherwise. For we have come to know of such things as grace and mercy and love. We have heard of our God: 

As far as the east is from the west,

so far has he removed our sins from us.

(Psalm 103: 12)

And we know that east never meets west, i.e. I could head east around the earth, end up where I started from and still be going east. I will not have met west. 

In other words, it is not the plan of the uncreated Light of God to expose and condemn. Rather, the Light of the holy One separates us from our sins and shame so completely that we will never have to encounter them again. They are gone.

So why, the curious reader might ask, do I still carry around those shameful memories if I don't have to? A very, very good question.

The gift of mercy has already been given. We don't have to beg for it. 

All we need to do is accept the gift and allow our lives to be transformed.

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(To help us imagine this transformation, I'm sharing here an image of how a bit grass gone to seed was transformed by the setting sun. And this created light is but a hint of the uncreated Light of its Maker ...)

Week of Light: Day 1

It is so easy to slip into the darkness.

Hardly ever do we mean for it to happen. Who ever says to themselves, "I think I will go into that black hole of depression today"? Or "The dark night of the soul sounds good - maybe I'll have myself a good crisis of faith..."?

Even with the darkness of sin (i.e. thinking or acting in ways that move us away from God), seldom is it our conscious intent to reject all that is good and holy.

More often, something is hurting inside and we find ourselves wanting to make it feel better. And we are good enough at hiding things from ourselves that we may not even have conscious awareness of what it is that is pushing us to seek relief.

Furthermore, the remedies that most often occur to us first are the ones that provide the more immediate and certain release to the inner tensions of our pain and suffering. Raging, drinking, taking drugs or sexual acting out all tantalize us with promises of instant relief. If we manage to resist this first wave, the second wave typically includes the mind-numbing habits, such as playing video games, surfing the Internet or watching TV for hours on end.

Prayer and meditation do not promise us rapid relief. Neither do acts of kindness, sacrifice or forgiveness of those who have hurt us. Going to church or 12 step meetings...they're all right, I suppose, but...

It's just that the activities that may be most likely to lead us further into darkness are the things that seem the most immediately appealing. When I feel bad now, I don't want to wait around for weeks or months or years for a process that possibly - but not certainly - could make me a better person. I need relief now...

Thus, easily do we slip into the darkness and just as easily do we stay there. We long to escape our state of "blindness" but the darkness is familiar. And, seemingly, a lot simpler. We grow tired of fighting it.

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Tonight, I begin a Week of Light, inviting you to join me. (Light is the last of the 7 holy pauses in this blog series.) As always, I begin with some fear and trepidation, not knowing what will be given to me to post here for you for 6 more days. I'm as blind as the next person and do not see the path ahead of me.

But I know that my heart longs for the Light and I believe that there is a path. Seeming to confirm this, I heard these words earlier today while listening to Morning Prayer:

I will lead the blind on a way they do not know;

by paths they do not know I will guide them.

I will turn darkness into light before them,

and make crooked ways straight.

These are my promises:

I made them, I will not forsake them.

                                                                                     (Isaiah 42:16)

Join me in this Week of Light. We do better together than alone. Though we fumble in the darkness and our efforts seem small, let us gather our courage and take up the journey anew...

(Comments and contributions to this Week of Light are welcome and may be e-mailed to me at: findhope@roadrunner.com. Many blessings!)